 | CHAPTER XVI. The trapper's bride, or, Spirit of adventure |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
This occurred a short time after our
party had separated, and but a little distance
from the place of their parting.—
They had followed close upon the heels
of Red Hand, and were ready tine instant
he halted, to carry out their plans. Wahalla
with his party had reached the bank
of the river we have above spoken of,
and rightly concluding that Red Hand
would not cross, but would pitch his
camp on this side of it, hastened to ford
it a little distance below. It was a pretty
deep stream, and the current ran rapidly,
but he hesitated not to plunge into it, and
in a few minutes their faithful steeds
landed on the other side. They seemed
to catch the fierce, daring spirit of their
masters, and strained every nerve. It
was a gallant exploit, and the daring
rider might well be excused for hesitating
to undertake it, but such a feeling never
entered the minds of this brave, little
band. They were resolved that Coquese
should be rescued, at all events; and
their wrongs, too. By these two feelings
all other thoughts were banished, and
excluded from a place in their minds.
As soon as they reached the opposite
bank, Wahalla directed his followers to
remain where they were, while he, unperceived
by his foes, should proceed
alone up the bank until he came opposite
to the place where Red Hand was making
his preparations to camp. Seeing
these preparations, and being convinced
that such was, indeed, his purpose, he
hastily rode back to his watchful band,
and told them what he had seen. He
then ordered them to dismount and tie
their horses in the thicket, and take their
arms and follow him. This they at
once proceeded to do, and came up to
the spot opposite to where Red Hand
pitched his camp. Here they concealed
themselves behind the trees, with their
rifles in their hands, and their deadly
tomahawks by their sides, ready at the
first signal to spring upon their foes.—
A few minutes of breathless silence
and deep anxiety now followed, during
which time the Delawares continued to
watch the movements of their enemy,
with the most anxious earnestness.
The other division were engaged on
their side in a similar manner. They
waited for some minutes after all was
ready. They continued to keep perfectly
still and quiet, waiting for the moment
when Red Hand should place Coquese
by herself, apart from his warriors, that
they might then carry her off, and bear
her out of the way of danger, before their
enemies were aware of their presence.
After dismounting, and ordering his
men to do the same,—which command
they quickly followed, and proceeded at
once to unsaddle, and unpack their horses,
preparatory to turning them loose,—Red
Hand opened his wallet, and as before,
offered to Coquese a portion of the dried
meat which it contained. She as before
refused the offer, and now he urged her
strongly. Charles and Le Beaux, who
with some eight warriors, had stolen to
the thicket close upon them to execute
the plan of removing Coquese, could
distinctly hear his words of entreaty, and
see his gestures of impatience and anger,
as she persisted in her refusal. At last,
losing his temper and patience, he turned
his angry, scowling eyes upon her, and
raised his hand in a threatening manner
over her. At the same time he growled
forth a fierce threat against her, in case
she would not obey him.
Charles shook from head to foot with
anger, as he saw Red Hand's cruel conduct
towards her. His blood boiled with
his swelling passion. He clenched his
teeth close together, and in a hoarse
whisper said, “the base, cowardly dog
is going to strike her. By all that's dear
to me, if he does, I'll tear his heart from
his living body, where he sits!”
Le Beaux touched him on the shoulder,
and made a motion to him to be silent;
whispering at the same time, “you
will spoil all, if he hears you. I think
the wretch would murder the girl, rather
than suffer her to escape, if he thought
that possible.”
This operated like a gag upon Charles;
he remained perfectly silent. The only
movement he made, was to turn round
and make a sign to his hounds, that were
crouching in silence behind him, to lie
close down. The sagacious animals understood
him, and immediately dropped
close to the ground, at his heels.
But Red Hand did not strike his captive,
as he raised his hand, and cast his
scowling looks upon her. She raised
her face to him, and her eyes flashed a
fire as bright as that which gleamed in
his own, and with a clear, steady voice,
and unflinching look, that quailed not before
that terrible frown,—that made his
bravest warriors tremble,—but, on the
contrary, sought his eye, she exclaimed,
“it is fit and worthy of Red Hand, to
strike a defenceless woman. He stole
her with the help of his brave warriors,
when the braves of her tribe were on
the hunting path, and ran away, lest he
should meet them. Oh! he is, indeed,
a brave chief to war with women. Oh!
yes, let him beat Coquese, for she cannot
strike him. Her arm is weak, and
he needs not fear.”
This was said in a bitterly sarcastic
manner, that completely disarmed, and
deeply mortified the chief. This taunt,
and slur upon his courage, was so apparently
she mentioned, that he did not know
what to say, or know how to answer
her. His face colored with shame and
vexation. But the next moment, throwing
down his wallet, and jumping to his
feet, he said, “ah! my pretty Flower,
and did you think that Red Hand was
such a fool as to wait for the Delaware
warriors to come home before he carried
off his dear little squaw? Red Hand is
cunning, he knows how to cheat the stupid
Delawares.”
This charge of dullness upon their
character, roused more fiercely the hate
of the Delaware warriors, who heard
every word of what passed, and grinding
their teeth together, they muttered from
between them, “the dog lies,—he shall
pay for his vain boast with his scalp.”
“But,” said Coquese again to him,
who appeared to be determined to punish
and torment him, “does Red Hand think
to impose upon Coquese with his idle
boast? He is mistaken. Did he not
steal away like a coward, from their
presence,—and did she not see him urge
his wearied horses in swift flight. He
is very brave, now; swelling boasts are
on his tongue, but should the Delawares
meet him, he will tremble. His tongue
will forget how to boast. His words
may deceive silly squaws, but they cannot
cheat the ears of a Delaware maiden.
She knows the brave warrior better,
he keeps not his boasts for woman's
ear.”
Red Hand, instead of answering her,
seized her by the arm, and led her to one
of the little bowers which the running
vines had formed, where they mingled
with the branches of the stately trees, and
to which they clung for support. “Let
Coquese remain here,” said he, and
stooping down to her, he muttered in a
whisper, “let her beware how she gives
Red Hand bitter words. Let her remember
he carries a sharp knife in his
girdle.”
As he spoke, his features changed, and
his little, round, black, piercing eyes
looked like balls of fire. His whole aspect
wore an unearthly, and fiendish
look. He seemed like a spirit hot from
the abodes of the damned, and ready to
do any act, however shocking or hellish
it might be.
Coquese turned away her head from
him; her courage almost forsook her, at
that look. He then joined his companions,
and left her to herself. They had
thrown aside their weapons, and sat in
careless case, and fancied security, at
this time, when the sharp, watchful eyes
of their deadliest, bitterest foes were close
by them, observing their every motion.
The spot to which Red Hand had
conducted Coquese was quite a distance
from the bank, where his companions
were thus lounging and feasting. Let
them feast, for it is the last meal they
will ever taste in this world. There
will be another feast spread on that
green, grassy bank, before the sun shall
rise again, and vultures and crows will
clap their wings and scream in honor of
the feast; and the hungry, sneaking wolf
will growl, and snarl, and fight for the
dainty food that shall be spread at the
fatal board.
But to resume the story. As soon as
Red Hand had joined his companions,
Charles and Le Beaux, with the faithful
warriors that were with them, stole
noiselessly and quickly to the spot where
Coquese sat. She did not hear or see
their approach. Her face was buried in
her hands, and now her woman heart
asserted its prerogative over her. Her
desperate courage and her pride, which
forbade her to suffer Red Hand to see
her tears, had supported her during the
trying scene she had just undergone.—
But now, that she was left alone, and
those fiendish eyes no longer watched
her, she gave way to her feelings, and
the big tears filled her eyes and flowed
in streams down her cheeks, while deep
sobs, that she strove in vain to repress,
rent her bosom, and seemed as if they
would break her very heart. She felt
she was alone, and in the power of that
cruel man. Rather than submit herself
to his loathed embrace, or suffer herself
to be dishonored by him, she chose to
die. She, even at that bitter moment,
when all those dark, brooding thoughts,
like a black cloud, overwhelmed her
crushed soul, and despair shut out the
last lingering ray of hope that had supported
and felt that she could bid the grim king
of terrors welcome. The contrast between
the great, the almost heavenly
happiness, she had enjoyed but two days
before with her fond, devoted, idolized
lover, now served to send a deeper
gloom over her despairing soul. So
deep, so intense was her grief, so profound
and complete the absorption of all
her faculties in their great woe, that
Charles had reached her side and threw
his arms about her before she recovered
herself. But as she started, and in fear
looked to see what new danger threatened
her, she uttered a cry of delight,
and sprang to her feet.
Red Hand turned his head at the
sound. Amazement was in his face,
and he was too much surprised to move.
At the instant, quick as a flash, the Delaware
warriors sprung forward upon their
hated foes. Their terrible war-cry rung
loud and clear in the stillness of those
deep solitudes, and sounded like a knell
of death in the ears of the affrighted
Black Feet. M. Boileau at the head of
his brave followers, rushed from his
hiding place with the wild war whoop
of the tribe ringing out upon the still air.
The moment was one of fierce peril, and
death hung over the Black Feet band,
about to cut them down.
Ere they reached them Red Hand had
recovered himself, and sprung to his
feet. He saw at a glance that they were
lost, that they were completely surrounded
and surprised. But he resolved
to sell his life as dearly as possible. In
a voice of thunder, he shouted to his
warriors, “Take your arms, and fight to
the death! Escape is impossible! then
fight like the sons of your great fathers,
and die bravely.”
His voice recalled them to their senses.
They leaped to their feet and
seized the first weapons that came to
hand, determined to rally around their
chief, and fall with him. Red Hand
shouted his war-cry, raised his tomahawk
in the air, and watching the Delaware
that came towards him, warded off
his blow, and the next instant he buried
the deadly weapon deep in his brain.—
The Delaware fell dead at his feet. Red
Hand sprung over his dead body and
strode onward to the spot where Charles
stood supporting Coquese. Vengeance
was in his heart, and he would die contented
could he but slay the pale face
chief before the eyes of his mistress.
And this opposed his progress towards
our hero, and Charles did not at first see
him. He was endeavoring to soothe
and calm Coquese, and his face was
turned in the direction from which Red
Hand approached them. She uttered a
scream of terror as she beheld Red
Hand. So fiendish was the look he
wore, she dared not look upon him, but
turned her head away. Her scream
caused Charles to look up. It was just
in time for him to draw his heavy cutlass
and stand in attitude of defence. Red
Hand, with a scorn and a bound like a
tiger, sprung upon him. Charles, whose
hate equalled his own, and whose courage
could not be surpassed, was prepared
to receive him. With a strong
cut he beat aside the blow aimed at him,
and ere Red Hand could recover, he
dealt him a back blow, which inflicted a
severe wound upon his right arm, and
rendered it useless. His tomahawk
dropped from his hand, and uttering a
cry of blended pain, and rage, and disappointment,
he sought to grapple with
Charles in a close hug.
But just at that moment a new ally,
that he had forgotten, came to our hero's
assistance. His hounds, seeing their
master's danger, and hearing the cry of
Red Hand, bounded upon him with a
leap more sudden than his own. Their
strong teeth were buried in his throat,
and he fell beneath their united weight.
Quick as lightning they tore away his
throat, severing the windpipe and the
large arteries that lay on either side of
the neck, and ere Charles could call them
off, he was dead. Thus ended the life of
this treacherous and dreaded chief. He
was killed by Charles' hounds.
Coquese, who had recovered and
looked around, fearing the worst for her
lover, when she saw him safe, and his
bloody cutlass in his hand, uttered a cry
of joy and threw herself into his arms.
Charles pressed her fervently to his
heart. His feelings were too strong for
minutes. When at last he did
speak, it was in a low, fervent exclamation
of gratitude for her safety. “God
be praised, you are now at last safe,
dearest Coquese!”
She looked up into his face. Tears
were streaming from her eyes. They
were not tears of grief or sorrow. No,
her heart was full; but they were happy
thoughts, and she could not help weeping
for very joy, so sudden and unexpected
had been her rescue from death,
and what she deemed even more dreadful
than death itself; and this at the
moment when her heart had yielded to
despair and the darkest gloom. No
wonder then that such great, such sudden
joy, overcame her equally as her extreme
of grief. The extremes of each
passion produce very similar results.
Charles had placed himself between
her and Red Hand's dead body. He
wished she might not see it, so horrible
was the spectacle his mangled corse presented.
But as he endeavored to lead
her away from the spot, her eye accidentally
fell upon the body. She shuddered
at the sight, and turned deadly pale.
Charles thought she was about to faint,
but she as quickly recovered, and in a
calm voice, said, “It is terrible to witness
the punishment of his crimes. Bad as
he was, his end has been fearful. Bad
as he assuredly was, I could not have
wished for him so awful, dreadful a
fate.”
“He was a cunning and deceitful foe,”
said Charles. “His fate is the fate he
would have doomed his enemies fit to
suffer, could he have carried out his
wishes; but God is just, and had determined
it otherwise.” So saying, Charles
led her some distance from the spot, and
seated her by the side of a large tree,
that grew close by the open plot, which
we have described as lying on the river's
bank, which was free from trees,
and covered only with a soft carpet of
waving grass and wild flowers.
The shouts and fierce cries of the
combatants, as they engaged hand to
hand in the deadly struggle, had grown
weaker and fainter, and were less often
repeated by the Black Feet party.
Coquese, who had, as soon as she recovered
from the surprise and fear
which the startling and dreadful events
of the few moments just past had caused
her, and when she had in such a fond,
affectionate way, (that delighted the
heart of our hero, and called forth all the
rich store of love that was treasured in
his heart towards her), loaded him with
her thanks, and words that spoke her
whole-souled love for him; with a cloud
of anxiety, which had for a moment been
banished from her brow, as she clung to
Charles, and thought only of his happy
safety, but which now again shadowed
her fair face, inquired in a tremulous
tone, if her father had not come with him
to rescue her, and if he was not now in
the midst of the terrible, desperate fight
which was maintained before their eyes,
and but a short distance from them?
Charles replied that he had indeed
come with them, and was there to punish
his enemies, who had so much
wronged him, and violated every right of
hospitality, while they continued his
guests. And he related to her how her
father's heart had been racked with grief,
and anguish, when the fearful truth could
no longer be hid from him, that his dear
child had been carried off by the wily
chief.
“Go, dearest Charles,” said she, “and
seek him, I beseech you. I fear he may
be wounded or killed in this battle?”
Charles wound his arm around her
waist, and moving closer to her side, in
an imploring voice, said, “Urge me not,
dearest love, to leave your side again.
Oh! if you could but know how deeply
I have suffered,—how sad, and dark, and
bitter the thoughts that filled my mind,
and almost drove me to despair, when I
felt, and could no longer doubt that you
were lost to me, you would not ask me
to leave you again. No, no,” said he,
“I cannot leave you till you are once
more safe at home.”
His feelings were growing more and
more tender, and he was about to ask
her why he should ever leave her more;
why she would not consent to be at
once, his own sweet bride, when she
stopped him by saying, “But there is no
longer any danger to me here, and my
of my father's fate.”
Just at that moment the subject of
their thoughts and conversation was seen
leaving the spot where the battle yet
raged, and having descried them, was
approaching hastily, and joyfully towards
them. They both saw him at the same
instant, and uttered each an exclamation
of joyful surprise. Coquese sprang to
her feet, and the next moment was folded
in her father's arms, to his glad heart.
But we must now leave them, and go
back a few minutes to trace the scenes
which transpired between the Delawares
and their foes.
While Charles was protecting Coquese,
and in doing this, had met and defeated
their bold chief, in the way we
have related, although the Black Feet
were taken completely by surprise by
their enemies, yet did they, by no means,
fall an easy or unresisting prey to their
fierce attack. The confusion that at first
seized their chief, and also covered them
when the scream of Coquese revealed to
them the presence of their to be dreaded
enemies, was but for an instant. It
passed like a flash across his heroic, undaunted
spirit, and the determined purpose
of desperate revenge which should
cover his death, came as quickly. And
although the few Delaware braves, who
with Le Beaux had undertaken the duty
of securing the safety of Coquese, had
fallen upon their foes ere they could resist
the impetuous charge, and each had
stretched his victim in death upon the
ground, when they were just ready to
seize their weapons, with the single exception
of the unfortunate brave, who
had in his furious haste, forgotten to
guard his head from the blow of Red
Hand, not expecting to find him armed.
But Red Hand, more cautious habitually
than his followers, had not thrown aside
his tomahawk, which was a fatal weapon
in his hands. The hiding-place of M.
Boileau and his followers was some distance
farther from the scene of conflict
than that which sheltered Charles and
Le Beaux, with their few braves, and
two or three minutes elapsed after the
latter uttered their war-cry,—the signal
for a general attack,—ere they reached
the spot where the struggle was maintained.
During this interval, short as it
was, the survivors of the Black Feet
band had gained their war-clubs and
tomahawks, and getting in a close column,
prepared to resist their attack with
the courage which desperation gave them.
As when two hostile tigers, with burning
hate, and glaring eyes, lashing their
striped and spotted coats, that cover their
strong bodies, with their tails, till their
fury drives them headlong, and with wild,
terrific roars, that shake the ground beneath
their feet, and fill the desert air
with deafening echoes, spring like lightning
upon each other, inflicting deep
wounds with their strong claws and sharp
teeth, that drives them only to greater
fury, and maddens their passions; and
starting they seek, by wary bounds, and
quick leaps, to seize each the other at
some unguarded point, which shall advantage
them, and enable them to crush
each other beneath their successful spring,
until at last losing their caution, they
close in the death gripe, and struggling
for each other's life, they turn and roll
upon the ground, tearing and biting with
deadly aim, until one or the other is
stilled in death;—so rushed together, in
this fearful struggle, these hostile warriors,—screaming,
shouting, and uttering
the wild war-whoop, as they met with
uplifted weapons, and gave or received
the murderous blows, that were showered
thick and fast on either side. Their
weapons clashed in fearful strokes,—long
and well they fought. Their quick eyes
and agile bodies watched the meditated
blows, and with the agility of the panther,
they leaped aside, or parried them,
and in turn struck back upon their adversaries.
The fight was carried on hand to
hand, in close encounter. The war-club,
and the tomahawk, and the knife, were
the weapons they held in their hands.
None could be more effective, or bloody
in such a struggle. There the prowess,
and warlike skill, and unflinching courage
of the braves, were displayed to the best
advantage. To this courage and skill,
and to this alone, did any of that little
army owe their superiority over their
enemy. And this with as much certainty
that armed with sword and shield, and
coat of mail, with closed visor, entered
the lists; and on horse and on foot, met
their adversary, sure that their superior
prowess would gain him the victory.
It is the only mode of warfare that gives
any chance for the display of personal
skill, and personal bravery. Hand to
hand they meet, and the brave heart and
the strong arm wins the day. It is a
rude and savage manner, to be sure, but
still in many points similar to the feats of
chivalry of olden times, does the Indian
conduct his fight.
But we have wandered from the story.
The din and confused noise of the conflict
filled the air, startling the birds from
their repose in the branches of the trees,
and sending the fearful steps of the prowling
wild beasts of the forest in affrighted
haste to their secret dens. It seemed as
if so many demons from hell were let
loose, and now were striving with these
hideous sounds, and unearthly clamor,
to terrify the world.
But the forces were too unequal to
allow the conflict to be long continued.
The Delawares were superior in numbers,
and surpassed their enemy in
strength and skill, while they did not
yield to them in bravery. And then,
too, they had the advantage of being well
armed and prepared, while their foes
were but poorly supplied with arms,
having grasped in haste, and almost in
despair, the weapons first at hand, and
they, moreover, had been fallen upon in
surprise. Such advantages told with
quick and decided results in favor of the
attacking party, and terrible havoc
among their enemies.
Le Beaux had rushed among the foremost
in the attack, believing that Charles
was safe from danger, and that none of
the Black Feet could pass them to reach
him. But in this he was mistaken.—
The chief who had selected Red Hand
for his antagonist, was struck down by
that warrior at a single blow, and Red
Hand had leaped over his dead body, and,
as we have seen, rushed upon our hero at
once. Two of his band that stood by
him attempted to follow, but Le Beaux,
with the heavy hatchet he bore in his
hand, darted upon the nearest, and gave
him a mortal wound that felled him to
the earth. Then, without pausing to
finish the destruction he had insured,
pushed after the other, who had almost
come up with his chief. Seeing Le
Beaux close upon him, and that he could
not hope to avoid him, he turned boldly
about, and rushed upon him with a suddenness
of action that had well nigh
proved fatal to the brave scout.
Without attempting to parry the blow
which was aimed at him, Le Beaux
leaped aside just in time to save himself,
and the next instant, ere the Black Foot
brave recovered himself, (for he had
gathered his whole might in the blow,
which he meant should terminate the
existence of his pursuer, and the force
had carried him past his enemy,) struck
a severe blow at him, which inflicted a
deep and painful wound, though not a
fatal one. With a cry of rage and pain,
quick as a wild cat, he sprung again at
Le Beaux, to drive his knife to his heart.
But Le Beaux was as ready now as his
foe. He struck him a second blow,
which wounded his arm, and made him
drop the knife. But at the same instant
he grappled his foe by the throat with
the other hand, and dragged him to the
ground, and with the strength of despair,
tugged at his throat to strangle him. For
a few minutes they continued to struggle,
rolling over and pushing each other aside
with all their might, they both being athletic,
powerful men. But Le Beaux had
the use of both arms, while his adversary
could use but one. This enabled him to
free himself from the Black Foot's grasp,
and drawing his knife, he gave him a
death wound, that alone could make
him release his hold.
He feared that Charles would prove
unequal in a personal struggle with Red
Hand, and he had, while engaged with
his enemy, given a glance after him, and
saw that he was engaged with him, and
shouted to him to cheer him. It was on
this account he had been so ready to use
his knife, so anxious was he to assist
Charles. But when he sprung to his
feet he saw that our hero needed no help.
Red Hand was stretched bleeding upon
the ground, and the fierce hounds were
to where M. Boileau was continuing the
fight, and pushing the few surviving enemies
towards the river. A few, hoping
to escape, plunged into the water and
swam to the other bank. But no sooner
had they landed, than Wahalla, uttering
his war cry, with fury bounded upon
them with his party, and at once slew
them.
Not one of the Black Feet escaped.—
The Delawares were furious, and resolved
to kill them all, or take them
prisoners. But they would not suffer
themselves to be taken, but died to a
man, stoutly fighting. The Indians never
do anything by half. In love, and
hate, in whatever they undertake, they
go the fullest length, and push forward to
extremes. The fight lasted not more
than half an hour. The Delawares had
lost three of their brave comrades, and
many of them had received wounds,
none however that were fatal. As
Wahalla crossed the stream and joined
them, they sent up a shout of victory
that rent the air, and reverberated in
bounding echoes along the silent hills in
the distance. Thus closed this bloody
and terribly fated battle. They had
been revenged awfully, terribly revenged,
by the blood of their hated foes. Not
one was left to carry the sad tidings to
their homes, that should cause the
squaws of those fallen braves to wail and
lament in grief over the fallen husbands
and fathers. It was vengeance complete,
awful. And now they tore the
scalps from the fallen enemies, still reeking
in blood, and hung them to their
belts, the trophies of their victory.
M. Boileau, who had ceased fighting
before the struggle was at an end, and
had sought his daughter, remained with
her until the noise and cries ceased, and
all was over. Then with Le Beaux,
who had joined, and who had both congratulated
Coquese on her speedy release
from captivity, and had received from her
her warmest thanks for his assistance,
he sought out the wounded, and took
every means to alleviate their sufferings,
and administer to their relief. Their
fallen comrades were removed to the
bank of the river beyond them and out of
their sight. The horses, both their own
and those captured from their enemies,
were caught, and brought in, and mounting
them, they rode a short distance
down the bank of the river, that they
might leave behind the spectacle of the
battle field, and here they prepared to
pass the night. Fires were kindled,
supper prepared, the horses were taken
care of, and a hasty tent prepared for
Coquese.
After they had partaken of their meal,
the party returned to bury their dead
warriors. It was a calm, beautiful,
moonlight evening. The stars shone
with a sparkling twinkle. The air was
still, and far and wide, o'er highland and
plain, in those vast, unbroken forests, the
stillness and quiet of deep, perfect repose
reigned. Slowly, and with sorrowing
hearts, they took their way on foot to a
spot which had been chosen as the last
resting place on earth of their fallen
brothers, until they should awake to
range with perfect happiness and unmixed
joy the blessed hunting grounds
of the brave and bold warrior in their
future abode. Just on the bank of this
wild river rose a little eminence, that
commanded a pleasing, but limited view,
of this romantic spot. Here with their
faces pointed to the east, their arms, and
all their martial weapons, and hunting
implements by their side, they buried
those honored warriors, and as they
heaped the earth upon them, they broke
out into a low chant, at first bemoaning
the death of their brave companions, and
their own grievous loss in their death.—
But this was changed into a bolder,
louder strain, as they repeated and
numbered the virtues and bravery of
their companions. Thus it ran:
“They are gone, and dark night with
its sable pall hastens to cover them from
our sight. No longer shall their swift
feet join us as companions in the joyous
chase. With spirit voices their lifeless
bodies speak to us, and there is no war
on their speech. Where do you fly, oh
bold warriors? whose arms were clothed
with mighty strength, and whose feet
outstripped the fleet antelope. Far in
the happy valley of the blessed hunter's
realm I see the blooming flowers of
path, and ever fruitful and green trees
with their soft branches above them.—
Happy spirits greet you, and, in songs
more soft and sweet than the red-breasted
warblers, attend thy path. Ye are
blessed and happy, dear companions, and
will sleep quietly in your green graves.
We will sing your death song, oh! loved
brothers. Mighty were ye in the chase.
The swift panther did not escape you.
The strong bear did not overcome you.
The furious bison could not cause your
brave arms to falter. Never did you
fear him on the hunter's paths. Ah,
you were mighty hunters, and we love
you. Ye were kind to your faithful
squaws, and we praise you.
“The squaws whom ye took to your
bosoms, and whose busy hands spread
the sweet venison, and fat bear meat upon
your boards in your beloved lodges, will
weep tears of sorrow over you, and will
cherish your image in their affectionate
hearts. They will teach your young
children the story of their father's deeds,
and who will grow up like their brave
fathers.
“Rest ye, then, in peace; and on
swift steeds fly to the happy lands, for
ye leave no foes behind to fetter your
steps. They are all sent to await your
coming, and are ready to be your slaves.
The Great Spirit looked on them in
wrath, for they were wicked in their
hearts, and lies were hid beneath their
soft words. They were cunning, but
his wrath gave them into your hands.
He was pleased when the last faint death-cry
came in despair from their lips, and
ascended to his open ear.
“Long will we sing your greatness,
brave warriors, and strive to imitate your
proud deeds. Ye are gone,—the spirit
that hovered around you beckons you
on, leading your feet to the happy groves,
and their shadowy forms glide before
you on swift wings; their voices sink in
the breezes that waft you, and nought,
save the hollow echo of our own words
comes back to us from the hill-side.
Your graves are glorious with many triumphs,
and are crowned with many victories
over all your foes. We will lead
our people to them, and make them
known to all. They shall chant above
them in your praise, your many brave
deeds, and your bright virtues; and singing,
shall strew fresh flowers above you.
Farewell, dear brothers.”
As they ceased chanting, each in turn
advancing, laid clasters of wild flowers
they had brought with them, upon the
fresh graves, and turning their backs, in
sorrowful silence departed, and sought
their temporary camp. The funeral rites
were ended. Their sorrow sought not
to unburden its woe in words, or any exterior
signs; but yet was it not the less
heavy on their hearts.
Charles had gone with them, and Coquese
also,—all were present at these
sad rites, that consigned some of her
brave deliverers to their final home.—
When they returned, Coquese entered
her rude and hastily constructed tent.
Charles laid himself upon the grass at
the door, with his trusty hounds by his
side to guard his sleep.
Early in the morning they set out on
their way home, and after three days'
journey, at the close of the day, they
reached the village. Charles had ridden
by the side of Coquese, and her father
had been prevailed upon to sanction their
love. It needed not many words to gain
his assent, for he had already loved our
hero, as much as if he had in truth been
his own son. How different were the
feelings with which they retraced their
steps now, at a moderate and pleasant
pace, compared with those which pained
and excited them as they hurried over
the same ground but a short time before.
All was calm, and pleasant, and smiling;
then all was dark and uncertain.
It was at the close of the day, as they
came in sight of their homes. Their
watchful friends descried them while yet
some distance off, and in anxious expectation
came out to meet them. When
they saw Coquese riding on a horse, between
the pale face chief and her father,
they shouted for joy. As they alighted,
Leila, whose joy at seeing her daughter
was full, could not control her emotions;
springing to her, she clasped her to her
heart, exclaiming, “My dear, dear daughter,
how happy your sight makes me!”
They wept for some time in each others'
But although there was great joy in
the lodge of M. Boileau, yet was there
also the sound of grief and lamentation in
the deserted lodges of the fallen warriors,
whose proud forms would never more
darken their doors, and whose kind
words were hushed in death. Their devoted
bosom companions mourned in
low, sad tones of grief, sitting by themselves.
They would not be comforted.
The dark cloud covered them, and hid
the light from their eyes. The Great
Spirit had veiled his face before them,
and they could not see his smile. They
refused food and drink. They uttered
no murmur or complaint,—deep, settled
sorrow held them silent and immovable.
Coquese visited, and in vain sought by
her kind words and offices, to win them
from their profound grief. She brought
food and implored them to eat, but in
vain. They had loved with all their
hearts, and now grief has filled their
minds to overflowing, and there is no
room left for consolation. For three
days did they thus remain in silent grief.
At the expiration of that time, they roused
themselves. The Great Spirit had
whispered hope and consolation. They
called their children, the pledges of their
lost husbands' affection to them, and
embraced them, resolved to live for them
from that time. They entered as usual,
upon their daily duties, and by no external
sign could you detect the sorrow
which, though subdued, was yet a heavy
burden to their grieving spirits.
And now, again, Charles and Coquese
lingered hour after hour, by themselves.
Again in that little bower where they
had passed so many happy days, and
the hours glided swiftly away on wings
of mutual happiness and love.
| CHAPTER XVI. The trapper's bride, or, Spirit of adventure | |